


The Man Who Never Came Home

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Brief Mention of Suicide, Coda, Death, Depression, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Grief/Mourning, John Watson's family - Freeform, Loss, M/M, Marriage, Mourning, Multi, POV John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Rosie Watson - Freeform, Sad, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: His life exists in an ocean, he thinks sometimes. It's like he's wading through foggy sea, waiting for it all to end.And so it does. The fog finally lifts, and he's back with the man who never came home.(Note: not about suicide)
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

The instant the light died in Sherlock's eyes, it died in John Watson's too. It had taken months before John had been able to force himself back to the working world to retain some façade of his life of _normalcy._

Every day felt like a battle. And John knew better than anyone what that meant. He was reliving his life as a solider; marching back and forth through the heavy fog of mourning, depression, grief, or whatever it was that Ella had liked to call it.

During their sessions, she had taken to asking him about Sherlock once, stopping when John choked on his words, and deciding that no, _still_ John was not prepared to discuss the ghost that was still haunting his every movement.

One particularly bad day, he had sat down in the armchair across from her, his mind so exhausted that he didn't bother to mask the grimness he knew burned sharply on his face. That day, his therapist had decided that maybe he was truly, finally ready to talk things over.

He presumed she'd never forget the look on his face as the glass shattered and he marched out without another word.

Some days felt lighter, like somehow the mist had cleared and he was back in the clear again; ready to move forwards in his life. Other days, it felt as if the fog was so heavy, he couldn't breathe, and all he could do was wait.

His life exists in an ocean, he thinks sometimes. It's like he's wading through fog, waiting for it all to end.

Then there was a smile- a woman by the name of Mary Morstan. She seemed lovely. John supposed this meant it was time to really move on.

It was Saturday, one day after a date had been planned, that for the first time in eight months, John waltzed into therapy with a smile on his face. Several weeks went like this. Ella said she was happy for him; that she could see him getting better.

He decided not to tell her about the nights he lay in bed, floor littered with bottles and a hand wrapped around a cold, metal gun.

He chooses the restaurant before the ring. He doesn't really know why. He guessed it was more important, somehow, to choose the right venue for the question.

He doesn't think about the fact that he's somehow hoping that ghost will come back again to haunt him before he does it.

When she says yes, he smiles. He had expected it- they'd really clicked, the two of them. He'd lived this moment many times- movies with the happy couple together, ecstatic at the prospect of eternity together. He knew how it was supposed to feel.

When she stood up to kiss him, he smiled warmly at her, and he hoped that in that moment, she wouldn't touch his chest and feel the cold, absence of his heartbeat; disappointment hanging heavily in his chest.

The reception was lovely. Bright yellow wallpaper and a beautiful garden. It was everything John could have asked for, and more.

At least, that's what he told himself when he watched his bride walk up the aisle.

He knew he loved her. He really did. And as he looked her in the eye, reciting his memorised, traditional vows, doing his best to keep it from sounding robotic, he really did try to ignore the hollowness of his words as they fell through his mouth and tumbled onto the carpet below him.

It's not like he could blame her. He knew it was a difficult job, taking the place of a long-lost partner. They really were doing the best that they could.

When Greg stood up from his place next to John and begun his speech, John smiled up at him gratefully. The speech was simple, conventional; everything he'd expected from his friend.

When he'd approached him to ask him about it, Greg had been happy, excited even. Maybe too much.

John knew he was overcompensating. He could feel it in his chest when he looked at him. He just wasn't sure that he wanted to know what for.

The Christening is a complicated mess. John had really taken to Catherine.

When the vicar asks for his child's name, he's about to announce it. Then Mary cuts in before he can say anything.

'Rosamund,' she says quickly. 'Rosamund Mary.'

John doesn't understand the significance of that.

He supposes it doesn't matter anyway.

There are another two children after that. Mary names both of them. By the third time standing in that chapel, John really doesn't have it in him to care.

By the time all his children are well into their twenties, one has transitioned (John had found it kind of funny to watch him throw his mother's name choice to the side and reclaim himself), one has followed in his footsteps to become a doctor, and the other has shipped herself off to join the army.

When Jacob had told them all that he was changing his name legally, John had one appeal; one contribution.

He'd pulled him aside after the dinner announcement and whispered quietly.

'I just have one request,' he said.

'What is it, Dad?'

John took a moment to take a deep breath.

'Jacob Sherlock Watson.'

He complied.

One day, John forgets his wallet.

The next, he forgets his trousers.

Alzheimer's. That was the prognosis.

He can't help but scoff. It seems funny to him that after everything, he'd go out like this.

 _I guess I'm finally losing my mind_ , he thinks.

He doesn't have it in him to be angry.

When he'd made the call to deliver the news, Morgan was off in some undisclosed position in the Middle East.

She flew home the very next day.

They all knew it was her way of saying goodbye.

When the first serious symptoms occur, he's on his way to work, and he realises he doesn't know where to go. He falters, stopping right in the middle of the street, almost hit by traffic before he has the sense to keep moving towards the pavement.

When he reaches the curb, for a moment, he almost thinks he sees blood on the cement.

When he blinks his eyes, the world comes back into focus and his memories offer themselves back to him. He doesn't smile when he remembers where he is- what he's doing; why all of this is happening.

For a moment, he vaguely wonders what he did to deserve it.

As he sets off in the direction of the clinic, he thinks he knows what it is-

_Everything._

He doesn't have it in him to care.

It's not long before John quits his job and spends his days at home. It's only months after (he thinks), when he's transferred to an aged care facility.

Or maybe it's been years.

He doesn't know.

One day, a woman comes to visit him. She holds his hand, and he tells her she is very lovely. She looks about the same age as him.

When he notices the ring on her finger, he asks her who she's married to. She smiles, tells him it was to a lovely, tragic man.

Before he can comment on that, she's standing up and kissing his forehead. It feels strange, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he watches her as she walks out of the room, and he can't help but wonder why there are tears in her eyes as she does.

The next time people come to visit him, he can't move his arms. There are a few of them this time. He doesn't know who they are, but they seem nice. When one of them asks him how he is, he has trouble talking. Trouble breathing too. With some difficulty, he just manages to say it.

He says he thinks it's just about time now.

He doesn't know what it means; just that it feels right.

He ignores the tears forming in his eyes.

 _It all just feels right_.

He knows it's coming soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year

_Half a dozen watchers crowded 'round the crisp white bed he lay nearly unconscious in. When he awoke, he looked around at them, unsure of who they were, but from the soft, dimly_ _encouraging smile on the person nearest, he got the sense he was someone nice. Somewhere safe. The others seemed sad. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind, he was fading, but he couldn't feel sad for himself; he knew it was his time to go. Instead, he felt sad for the people around him, wondering if somehow there could be a way to help them. He tried lifting the corners of his mouth, mimicking the action of that kind person standing nearest to him, but he realised his face didn't work._

_Feeling more tired than he could imagine -though his imagination didn't stretch all that far at all- he closed his eyes again and waited. He was peaceful, like the weight of the world had shifted off of him now that his eyes were closed and he'd resigned to it. Or perhaps it was just because the weight had moved on to something else. Maybe he knew his time was up._

_And just as he felt everything dim, something touched his hand, and he would have otherwise ignored it, but the feeling was bright, an undiluted, saturated sensation; more colour than touch. In curiosity -his last curiosity- he reopened his eyes, yet this time the crowd around him no longer existed._

_Instead, stood the one person he knew by heart, too ingrained in the depth of his soul to be tainted and forgotten by the_ _erosion_ _of time and weariness. This time, without even thinking of it, he managed to smile. It was tiny, virtually non-existent in the plane of real existence, but the feeling -those colours- shined back just as strong in return._

_So with his last corporeal strength; the last ounce of will that could ever be left in his body, his finger closed slowly around the hand gently placed in his. On cue, his lungs gave out and his heart gave in, and the glimmer of light that had been left within him, faded away, until the world fell away to nothing and the silence took over instead._

_So in the silence, he stood with his friend; his heart full and his eyes lost as he stared out at a sunset before them, floating in nothing, close, and without the limitations of the cage of the horizon. He turned from the sun to gaze into knowing eyes, literally ethereal as they glittered with the orange of the dying sun, and he reached out for his connection until he found it; reciprocated with the mimicking of the firm grip of his fingers in return._

_John felt his age slip away; the dying body falling from him like weathered, frayed layers of paint, peeling away. When it was over, and he was stripped down to the bare essence of his being, he found he didn't need a mirror to understand how he looked._

_He could feel the clothes against his skin, the military cut, his face clean after shaving. But mostly, he could feel the colours again -only this time, less in tones, and more in terms of_ feeling _. It shone bright in his metaphysical chest and extended to the man next to him, joined together by hand and hip and heart, and all that ever truly mattered._

 _So he took a deep breath to inhale the cold nothingness of the void before glancing up at the sunset as it withered in its final moments of deep, orange light. Then he looked back up at his friend and smiled, and in the last moment before the light completely dimmed and went out, Sherlock smiled back, and they stared at each other, each soaked in warm happiness as the light went out and they were engulfed in darkness, and finally the weight truly departed, and what was left of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_ _faded away_ _and became nothing._


End file.
